Our Land
by mondayman
Summary: The final hours of America, and presumably the world. Here are a small account of the perspective of the ones immune, and what is done within each point of view. (Old 2015 Left 4 Dead project, feedback is appreciated!)


Our Land

The shiny spikes on his gloves reflected onto the screen of his TV. He stared deeply into the news anchor signing off to the apocalypse at hand, her words ending the broadcast and finally ending the technology we knew before. He stood at 5' 11", dressed in navy blue jeans, casual shoes, his FL Tampa shirt, navy blue members only jacket, a panther mask that looked worn and rubbery, and his finishing move weapon his sharply spiked gloves. The TV went to static, indicating that the fun began for him, he then took in a deep breathe, and finally… exhaled. He walked out of his apartment in a storming fashion; breathe not detectable, footsteps like silent mice, and looking very alert but calm at the same time. He could hear his battle ahead, and he was as ravenous as a wolf for its weak prey, but first he had to find his friends, his crew in rambunctious ness; Hammer, Bullet, and the one and only Fang.

As he was storming down the hallway he could hear nervous parents talking to their kids, women and children crying to their old luxury life and into the boiling hot pan of hardship and succumbing to the law of club and fang, a law eliminated by many and seldom remembered by elderly. Fang knew, he was born into it, molded by morals of the law of club and fang, which he knew front to back and would never forget of how it would be essential in the new, pure rawness of the world that was in front of him. Humanity is on its last and final streak of existence, all it takes is everyone to surrender and accept the inevitable however not all humans are as mentally strong as his three comrades. These people he has been friends with, were all born along with him into the fire, baptized by the law, and cremated with the morals of strict blood flow and action making the trio, a match made in blissful agony.

He slammed the fire escape door open and looked down the staircases to see already people changing into his newly found prey, and as he heard, they only get better with taste and mutate into better, more challenging feasts. He could be seen smiling if it weren't traditional spirit of him and he stared at his amazing weak minded individuals forming into white skinned, cloudy eyed voice changing pieces of art. The worlds new spark of realism he thought, this is only the beginning… the beginning of his amusement, the beginning of Fang's newly prepared world playground, where he could do what he wanted to without restraint, infringement was impossible for the beast inside him. The Individuals were only a minor obstacle to him, for others, a blockade not even feasible to break down. The clouds outside were an almost pitch black, the air as about as thick as titanium and giving off the scent of fire and trailed off gasoline, but Fang couldn't smell any of this, all he could smell was his scent of the desire for victory. Something he couldn't achieve in his past life.

"Holy **** this hurts!" exclaimed the impaled Gregory. Gregory was lying down with a piece of fallen building debris; Bernard trying to calm him down so "They" didn't hear him. "Ok look Gregory, I need you calm… like right now…" Bernard quietly saying over the wailing of Gregory who is in immediate shock and pain, Gregory then immediately fainted on the ground with the spike of the buildings support system in his stomach region. Bernard then cursed under his breath, but looked up toward the horde of "them" and the bullets flying by the military, helicopters with the whir of the blades and continuous siren of police orders. Bernard's nerves have been on high alert ever since the news shut off due to the "incident" on 45th street between the bank and the hospital, and now he has to worry about his best friend bleeding out in a crashing burning building, not a way to go out. Bernard looking around for anybody or anything to help out then slowly recognized his decisions, he either left him there to find somewhere else or he could… no… there is no way to do that, Bernard could also pull him off the spike. Bernard had to decide where he would pickup Gregory, he didn't have a lot of time before the military would wear off or one of "them" picked up his body heat. Bernard decided to pick Gregory up by the stomach region then firefighter-pickup him to somewhere where he could somehow live and breathe to another day… or never. Bernard slowly picked up Gregory, making the most disgusting sound Bernard heard then, but now not even closes too. Bernard could hear his intestines untwining out of the spike, making sloshing and bubbly sounds, and Gregory not even noticing as he was completely unconscious to the soul-crushing pain that was being displayed. Bernard pushed with all his strength to pull him out, but finally did so causing Bernard to fall back and drop Gregory. Bernard saw the some-what lifelessness of Gregory's body, but quickly regained his balance in his ever so timeless haste. Bernard stood up, slowly walked over to Gregory's body and began to pick him up from the war-ridden ground that used to be an office room.

The trigger was pulled already, and you see that it was his final draw from the donated sanity box deep within his memories. The bullet fell on the ground almost quietly, but to him, it was every cruel darken memory almost fading away by the sound of the blissful crunch of brass to the wooden floor boards. His arm began to lower, and so did the forged hope he had longed for his whole life, as living organism we live, eat, drink, procreate, and forward our legacy by doing so. But what is there to live for if all of it is gone and gained by the beast? What do we have left? Is it the sheer brutality from which we have lowered down to for our own survival? Why do we keep thinking about tomorrow's problems when today the biggest problem is ourselves and the mercy of the beast is around us? He feels lost at all of the questions that led to complete lunacy, making him just a shell of a human being, one of us. He stood there, observing his freshly slain being by his own will, he couldn't blame the bullet, and he had to blame the finger for doing so. Slowly and steadily, he began to understand the human capacity of becoming something that the ancestors of late had already understood. His emotional strain not visible to the naked eye, but with flying colors inside his mind, the luxury is what people miss… not their own families, but their welcoming beds and the fondness over the technology of today… but most importantly the innocence of society's overwhelming devotion to the counterfeit reality that edge in the casing of the many individuals before the catastrophic episode. He thinks this is a test for the human race, something that the social order didn't give them, an injection of realism, and not the soothing remedy of idealism that kept the wave of abhorrence and falsified smiles of the poor and rich. Not anymore, he can't go on… this isn't some meager attempt at finding a luminosity of the wish of to be set free from the bonds of the savage humankind. But to see what is there, a prying sensation of the human mind and the question he wanted answered was…why shall I stay and wallow in the woes of the people's grievances, and suffer the penalties?

Well.

He will never know.


End file.
